Merry Christmas! (And a Pippin New Year eeeyyy *ba dum crash*)

Imagine, for a moment, that Ian Rider wasn't an investment banker and that his real job carried the gravity of a hundred solar systems.

Ian pushed his chair away from his desk, rubbing the stress lines out of his forehead. Every month he looked more and more like his brother: stressed, worn down by burdens no one else could understand.

It was Christmas Day - well, actually, it was Christmas Night. Ten in the evening, and he was at work. Reports needed to be written, he was still trying to set up his pension so he could retire earlier, and there was a stack of files on his desk that he had to read through.

Some time ago, he had crossed a line. Or the line had been crossed for him. Either way, Ian had gone from enjoying his work to despising it. Each mission felt like a chore, especially with the kid at home.

Ian Rider knew he wasn't fit to be a guardian. He traveled constantly. He got injured frequently. He slept often.

He couldn't take care of a kid - his nephew, who looked just like his father- so he had started teaching the kid, Alex, to take care of himself.

Now, staring at the files in front of him, he wondered if that had been such a good idea.

It was not secret that he had a nephew, and if word got out about Alex's astonishing athleticism and dexterity (he was eight, and had already run a kid's triathlon without breaking a sweat), then MI6 could get their claws into him.

One thing Ian knew for certain was that he did not, ever, want Alex to become a spy or any kind of federal employee.

Pushing the troubling thoughts away, Ian reopened the file on his desk and started to read.

It was Christmas Day, and he was alone.

The second time that Ian missed Christmas was when he was lying on his side in a shallow foxhole somewhere north of Afghanistan. Things had gone awry and he was suddenly without king or country, stranded in a land torn with war and terror. He could hear the gunfire half a mile away as bullets strafed the barren dirt.

In the middle of a war, his mind was somewhere far away.

England, 2007.

Alex came stomping in from outside with his trainers muddied beyond recognition. His hair looked like a haystack caught in a tornado, and his eyes glinted with some excitement typical of childish innocence. Heedless of the mess his shoes were making - Ian thought for the hundredth time that he really should hire a housekeeper - Alex ran over to Ian and proudly held out his hands.

"Look what I found!"

Ian glanced sideways as he filled out his tax returns, then nearly swore as he leapt out of his chair and dropped his pen, eyes fixed on the lizard his nephew held.

"Alex! Where did you get that?"

"In the stream," Alex said. "He's a lacerta vivipara. That's what the encyclopedia said. Can I keep him -"

"Can you?" Ian interrupted.

Alex rolled his eyes. "May I keep him? I can buy a tank, and food, and - and there's a pet store downtown!"

"I don't think so," Ian said, looking at the small reptile in Alex's hands. The lizard restlessly stirred, its tongue flicking in and out. Scaly eyelids blinked twice. It was small, probably young, and from the look of its scales most likely inhabited someplace damp and dark. Just the thought of a lizard tank made Ian's skin crawl as he recalled something on one of his missions to Mongolia - a massive lizard that could bite clean through human flesh, which he had unfortunately witnessed. Ever since then, he had hated lizards.

But as Alex stared at him with pleading eyes, it occurred to Ian that he should get a pet - maybe a dog - for the times when he traveled. He knew Alex got lonely with the ever-rotating cycle of babysitters, even though the kid tried not to show it. He was, after all, only ten years old.

"Yeah. No lizards."

With a disappointed tilt to his mouth, Alex turned away with his catch and started back towards the door.

"Do you know what vivipara means?" Ian called after him, realizing that he hadn't seen Alex practicing his Latin in a few days.

"Life-giving," Alex muttered.

"Right."

As Alex went outside, Ian shuddered. Lizards that birthed live young. Probably came from a special circle of hell.

Ian shifted slightly, the canvas of his jacket scraping against the rocky dirt. He had caved after a few days and took Alex to get a dog - a golden retriever, something manageable when he wasn't there - to keep him company.

He vowed to be home for Christmas next year.

He wasn't the only one alone.

Closing his eyes, Ian leaned his head back against the concrete barrack wall with a dull thunk.

Of all the bloody luck.

"Physical evaluations happen every five years at Brecon Beacons. You'll be gone for three weeks during the winter. It's a necessity to ensure your best chances of success and survival."

Right.

Of course, this would be the third time he missed Christmas. He had been home last year and was earnestly looking forward to taking another week off from work to spend with Alex, until he got the reevaluation notice in the mail. Part of him had been tempted to tear it up, but Alex was watching. He was an inquisitive kid. Ian was also half-tempted to tamper that curiosity before it got Alex into trouble, but he reminded himself that most kids didn't grow up to be spies or soldiers. Alex was a bright kid, he would probably be an engineer or a scientist, if he could ever bring himself around to enduring another year of astronomy. That was the only science Alex had been scheduled for the previous year, and he spent almost every moment ranting about it in a manner very similar to his father.

Ian smiled, remembering one of his complaints: "Why do stars have so much math? Why do I have to care?"

Priceless.

Now Ian was stranded at the end of the world that was constantly covered in fog. Alex would hate Brecon if he ever had the misfortune to wind up there. Nothing to see, no one to talk to - it was a place with single-minded intent: to train soldiers.

And, every five years, spies.

Ian was going to put in for a desk job.

He needed to be with his family.

Ian woke up to the smell of bacon.

It was a relief to wake up in his own bed for once instead of the jungle or some other place equally depressing.

He rolled out of bed in sweatpants and searched around the darkened room for a t-shirt, pulling it on before stepping out into the hall.

Someone was already moving around downstairs.

Wrapping paper rustled from the living room.

"Alex!" a woman's voice called. "Step away from the presents!"

Alex's reply was muffled, but the rustling stopped.

Ian descended the stairs with a forced normal stride. His leg twinged from where a bullet had nicked it during his last excursion - this time to Northern Sudan - but, obviously, no one in his house knew. There was no way he could explain that one away, especially as Alex was quickly rising to the top of his class in intelligence and perception. His lie-detecting abilities were uncanny, for example, and Ian was starting to suspect -and dread- that he might have a photographic memory.

Not to mention his athleticism.

Ian was starting to become seriously concerned about Alex's future and vowed to retire soon before MI6 became aware of Alex's abilities. He would be perfect as an agent and Ian had, somewhat unknowingly, groomed him for that by indulging his hobbies.

When he walked into the kitchen Ian was greeted by plates of bacon and waffles steaming on the table. Alex was already inhaling his food, being twelve and constantly starving, and he sat next to Jack Starbright.

Jack was a pretty woman. She was from America, originally in London to study, but she ended up staying and now lived with them and took care of Alex. Having her around made Ian feel slightly less guilty about his prolonged absences.

Alex grinned as he took a swig of milk. "Merry Christmas!"

Ian returned the smile as he sat down across from him. "Merry Christmas, Alex."